The Promise of Redemption
by a certain slant of light
Summary: As he wandered the busy streets, abustle with drunken tomfoolery, he stumbled and muttered to himself, “I am dead.” [NorringtonOC]
1. Ghost of Glory

Author's Note: I love Norrington, plain and simple. And since this love was ignited for the first time in his scruffy debut in Dead Man's Chest, I write this story as an ode to that, well… awesomeness. I'm very displeased with the way things turned out for him At World's End, so naturally this story excludes his appearance in the third movie, and also the latter half of the second movie. That is to say this is Post-Curse, Half-Dead Man's Chest, and No-At World's End. Confusing, isn't it?

Nonetheless, please enjoy!

**Edit:** After seeing At World's End, my dedication to this story has been rekindled. Thus, before writing new chapters, I am going to edit and rewrite the current ones. Don't expect large changes, just slight tweaks of sentences and words to increase fluidity and charm. Thank you!

Disclaimer: I do not own Pirates of the Caribbean, nor any of its corresponding and rightful characters, settings, and/or theme park rides. I do own the original character found in this story.

* * *

"Ghost of Glory"

A tall man stumbled through the familiar pub, colliding with bar stools, walls and patrons. His clothes were tattered and splashed with every manner of vile liquid, from liquor to mud to bile to blood. He wiped a stray trickle of rum from his chin, using the fraying cuff of his jacket- once a brilliant royal blue, it was now caked in a sickening brown hue.

The man swabbed a hand over his mouth, a thin string of saliva following his fingers and eventually releasing its hold on him. His dark brown hair hung loose and wild over his eyes, shadowing the contempt and remorse they held. His once kempt and clean hair was now greasy and filthy with dirt, clinging lifelessly to his skull. Raising a hand, he scratched his scraggly beard with jagged, broken fingernails, nicking himself more than once. He felt immune to it now, and had long since abandoned the virtues of aesthetic decency.

Tossing his empty bottle to the pub floor, the dark man managed an ungraceful inebriated swagger to the bar. He nearly collapsed on the counter, before slamming his fist down in anger.

"More rum!" he managed to yell. His slurred words were lost in the sea of other furious demands for hard liquor, and he groaned, harshly yelling again, "MORE RUM!"

Again his cries went unheeded.

While sober, though it was a rare occasion indeed, the man hardly recognized that voice as his own anymore. It was strained and gravelly from disuse, pathetic and rough. Its once patriotic and commanding tone had been swept out to sea, along with its host's hopes and aspirations. In a maelstrom of drunken foolishness and debauchery, ambition had deserted him in search of better prospects. Where his sense of enthusiasm had once dwelled, he felt an aphotic, bitter void. The emptiness grew and multiplied like a disease, consuming him and threatening to shred the last remaining strands of his sanity, when - as if by some great and terrible miracle - the abyss in his heart was filled with a new emotion.

Self-pity.

However, unlike its new keeper, it was not alone. It brought with it a slew of fresh, conflicting emotions. At first, he tried to repress them, but eventually surrendered to their horrible temptation. Surrender was a word he had once loathed, had once battled and abhorred with every fiber of his being. But time had worn disdain's bite thin, and now the hate he once felt for others fell only upon himself. He was a walking testament to the breaking of a man, no matter how proud and mighty they once were. Where confidence and courage had resided, now lived happily self-deprecation and disorder. In the confined chambers of his mind, where so adamantly had reigned hope and aspiration, now ruled depression and a sickening sense of depravity.

In desperation, he fled to substance abuse. At first, he avoided the liquor, the drugs, and found his temporary high at the brothels. Ironic that he had ran there to avoid the drink, and that was where he was introduced to it. Eventually, however, his purse ran dry, and he learned that not even prostitutes would pity or humor a poor man. Spurning him and his empty pockets, the innkeepers forced him into the crowded streets – and consequently to his escape.

The drink.

Ah, the drink. That fine taste of bittersweet damnation as it smoldered upon his tongue, scorching his senses and torturing his throat. At first it was one bottle a night, but soon one helping was not enough to sate his growing subservience to it. Only moments after it trickled down his throat like a consolatory inferno, so too did the spark of need light a raging incandescence in every recess of his fraying mind. He craved that vile taste, that painful sensation swallow after swallow, so that eventually he became numb to it. He became dependent on it, needing it, needing what wondrous and harrowing bounty it brought.

A detachment from feeling alive. The last thing this man wanted was to feel conscious. To feel the shame and regret, to know it was beyond his power to return to his former glory. Each night, in a drunken stupor, he'd find his way to the beach, fall to his knees, and scream drunken curses at the sky. Each morning, he'd think of it as somewhat of a "Why hast thou forsaken me?" but knew it was in all likelihood far less cultured and far more vulgar. Yet he continued to seek fleeting solace at the bottom of every bottle his fingers could reach.

Periodically, on the rare occasion that his mind wasn't tainted and reeling from that corked poison, he would vaguely remember the refined flavor of red wine. Its piquancy and savoriness, and how it felt like Heaven to the tongue and senses. It was then that he remembered how Heaven had cast him down, and the acrid reality of how far he had fallen came rushing through him, just like the wave that had washed him ashore all those weeks ago.

To recall the wine, to recall the Heaven was futile. The spurning fire of liquor felt more appropriate in this Hell.

So, intoxicated, he wandered the streets of the port, reeking of alcohol and piss and bile until not even the brothel women took pity on him anymore. Inebriated, he'd attempt to find a rush in bar fights, though in the end they always concluded with him lying face down in the pig pen, covered in a generous amount of bruises, scratches and scars that a cultured member of society could not possibly fathom.

He'd awake each morning, an impertinent, soggy snout in his ear and the intrusive glare of the Caribbean sun berating his worn eyes. Pain wrenched through his weary body, to the tips of his fingers, an aching collage of stiffness and infection. In his mouth, he felt the steady rise of bile, and prepared to face yet another charmless hangover. If he were lucky, an unknown passerby might toss him a coin on these days, though none had the kindness to stop and aid him.

So there he lay, in a gut wrenching puddle of blood, mud and vomit, never quite certain if it were his own or not. That was where he would go to sleep each night and involuntarily awaken each morning. All hopes of retaining his omitted dignity drifted away on the sea breeze, whisked off to another island port filled with customary and kindly folk, the likes of which enjoyed afternoon tea and pleasant ceremonies gathered round a procession Royal Guards. On occasion, he'd catch a glimpse of himself in a shop window, ragged body painted by the array of respectable clothes on the other side. Before he could turn away in disgust, he was visited by the same morbid realization that haunted his every waking moment, and stalked his every prolonged nightmare.

He did not belong in that world. Not anymore.

Where he had once proudly stood, there remained an emptiness, a vacancy soon filled by someone far more capable than he. No, he was not worthy of that approval, that power. No longer did he deserve to be regarded as a symbol of authority, patriotism, protection. Fate had dealt him this hand, and he knew no bluff would ever be convincing enough to delude himself into thinking he could return to that place.

Thus, it was here he lay again - after starting a bar fight when he could not pay requital for the rum he had consumed - sprawled amongst the pigs and fellow drunken bastards who had lost their lot in life. He grasped his stomach in pain, lapsing into short, haggard coughs and pants, spitting blood and trying to rid himself of the awful and dreadfully familiar taste. His body was wrenched by spasms as he expelled what little he had consumed that day, before collapsing between a pig, a puddle of vomit, and his own overwhelming sense of despair.

Nothing could ever atone for this. Nothing could ever repair the damage that had been done. He was no longer a man, merely the shell of a mortal soul that with every rising moon and sun withered little by little.

It was true.

Commodore James Norrington of Port Royal was a shadow of his former self.


	2. Bull's Eye

"Bull's-Eye"

A sharp, pointed object whizzed through the air, embedding itself in the cork of a dartboard. The board was speckled with other such things, darts strewn across and all poking out at different angles. Empty holes and indentations from previous games gave it a worn appeal, while the sheen of newly purchases darts contrasted that of their host.

"Damn it!" a young man cursed, sending an accusatory glare at the woman leaning against the wall, sipping a glass of wine. The tavern was deserted, the owner shutting down business for the night on the occasion of a quiet get-together between friends. Of course, quiet get-togethers in Tortuga often resulted in the tossing of sharp objects. This particular group of friends was simply more civilized about it.

"Aw, looks like you missed. I win again," the young woman smiled sinfully, taking another long, savory sip of the expensive beverage. "So, what, I've won," the woman counted on her fingers, chiding him, "three hundred pounds tonight? Shameful, Penton, very shameful indeed."

Another man in the corner of the room laughed richly, but was quickly silenced by the losing gentleman's glare. "And why aren't you playing her, Edgar? Feel free to mock me when you've won a game."

The man named Edgar grinned. "That's precisely why I refuse to play her."

Penton shot him another menacing leer, before returning an even more scorching gaze to his female friend. "I want my money back."

The woman rolled her eyes. "Now, now, don't be a sobbing prick. If you want your money back, you'll have to play me for it."

His reproachful stare softening, the man's lips twisted into a sly grin as his eyes had a mischief about them that she was accustomed to seeing. "A wager, then?"

The woman yawned dramatically. "You know me, Pen. It's always a wager."

The man in the corner took a long gulp of whiskey before speaking up. "Shall I remove the darts?"

"Oh, don't act like a bloody slave, Edgar. Just because Penton owns the pub doesn't make you his serving boy," the woman said in a light, irritated town.

"The fact that I'm the barman says otherwise," Edgar replied, grinning.

Raising a hand, Penton motioned him to stop. "It's after hours, Ed, and besides, I don't intend on using all the darts anyway."

The woman raised her eyebrows. "You've lost the last five games, Penton. You're shit at darts and you know it."

"Such harsh words. Pardon me while I weep over my shortcomings," the man responded playfully.

"Oh, my heart _bleeds_ for you," she drawled sarcastically.

"I enjoy our little give and take," Penton chuckled.

She smiled, finishing off her wine. "Just shut up and give me the red darts. You know those are my favorite."

"You won't need them all."

"Oh, stop being so bloody cryptic, Penton, and tell me the rules this time."

Penton smirked, a tinge of teasing malice playing at his lips. "Very well. It's simple really. You're good at darts, I'll admit, but I've never seen you hit a bull's-eye-"

"Bullshit, I've done it at least twice," she interjected, brushing the comment off.

"Patience is not one of your virtues. As I was saying, I've never seen you hit a bull's-eye," he paused for effect, causing the woman to sigh in exasperation, "from fifteen feet away."

Edgar spat out his whiskey, granting Penton a wide-eyed stare. "That's insanity! You know she's not that good!"

The bartender received a prompt glare from the woman. "I've hit bull's-eyes before, and I've got a strong arm. I don't see why it should be any different with distance."

The pub owner's grinned widened. "So you're up for it?"

The woman winked in mock flirtation. "I'm _always_ up for it."

"Excellent."

"Bloody Hell," Edgar muttered, rolling his eyes. He came to the conclusion that whenever his two friends were within ten feet of each other, a battle of egos consistently ensued. Taking a seat at the bar, he watched the scene unfold, feeling absolutely positive that there was no way his female friend could make the shot.

"The stakes?" she questioned, plucking Edgar's bottle of whiskey and pouring herself half a glass before returning it to him. He grumbled in response.

"Why don't you start?" Penton suggested.

She shrugged. "Very well. If I win, I keep your money, and you serve me free of charge here at _The Sail's__ Wind_ for four months."

Penton contemplated this, knowing his friend could consume a lot of liquor in that time. Knowing her, she'd purposely spite him by demanding the most expensive drinks in stock. Weighing his options, he said, "Two months."

She shook her head. "Three and a half."

"Two and a half," he bartered.

"Three."

Penton sighed. "Fine, three months." He was quite certain there was no way she could make the shot anyway.

"And if I lose?" she questioned.

His confidence returning in spades, Penton's lips split into another wide smirk. He had been mentally preparing this for two months, when she had bested him at a card game. He lost his commission for an entire thirty days at the pub, not to mention his defeat had been beheld by more than thirty of his respected colleagues and friends. He still hadn't forgiven her for that, and the bitterness drove him to seeking revenge.

"Or you could tell me when you've stopped grinning like a daft idiot," she interrupted his thoughts.

Penton's eyes met hers with hardened purpose. "If you miss that bull's-eye, you can keep the money."

She eyed him. "Are you drunk? This is all about _reclaiming_ your coin."

He shook with a heavy sigh of irritation. "You never let me finish. As I was saying, if you lose, you can keep the money, but you can only use it for one thing."

Edgar was listening intently now, placing his bottle of whiskey on the bar and eager to know what his old friend and boss was about to say next.

"Well, spit it out. Don't bore me, Penton," the woman was beginning to become irate.

"Are you familiar with that drunken bloke who wanders the streets at night?" Penton inquired.

She rolled her eyes. "You'll have to be more specific than that."

"You know the one I'm talking about. The only one who sleeps with the pigs every night without fail, and can be seen howling curses into the sky near the shoreline?"

The woman thought for a moment, before making a face of revulsion. "Guh, that ruddy bastard that's always starting bar fights at _The __Faithful Bride?"_

Penton smiled. "Precisely."

"What about him?"

He groaned. "Will you just shut up and let me finish?" She gave him a frank look, but fell silent. "Well, if you lose, you take the money you've won tonight, you find him, and you get him back on his feet."

There was a long pause before... "What!"

Edgar sat expectantly on the edge of his stool, chuckling. She is doomed, he thought.

"Why the hell would I do that? He smells like piss and would sooner knife me in the gut than let me help him! He's a violent letch with a drinking problem, what the hell am I supposed to do?"

Penton shrugged. "With three hundred pounds, you can do almost anything. That is, _if_ you lose."

"Hmph, you say that as if it's a possibility," she mumbled in annoyance.

"You seem confident."

"You seem cocky," she replied, "and I don't mean that in the arrogant sense."

Edgar whistled out another raucous laugh, this time ignoring Penton's glare.

The tavern owner sighed, grabbing the box in which the darts were kept and began putting them away. He frowned. "Well, if you're so certain you're going to miss, I can't make you do anything."

The woman's eyes narrowed at her old friend. "Just tell me why."

He looked at her frankly. "Because I want him sober before he comes barreling into _my_ bar, shitting things up." He paused, not mentioning it was also his personal vendetta. "Not to exclude the fact that he's more likely to take charity from a woman than a man. That way it seems less like pity and more like kindness."

Edgar had to agree it was a logical approach.

"It's neither, it's obligation," she pointed out.

"He won't know that," Penton replied, before resuming packaging the darts. "Speaking of which, if you should happen to accept the wager and lose, then you'd also have to be gracious, stunning, caring and sympathetic." He gave her a quick up and down. "In short, everything you're not. And you'd have to keep your mouth duly shut about the bet."

"You're an ass, you know that?" she spat.

He shrugged. "But, if you really think you're that bad a shot, so be it. Just as well, with my luck you would have hit it, and I don't think I could pay for three months of free rum out of my own pocket," he stated airily, reaching for the last dart before a small hand grabbed it and pulled it out of the board. The woman placed a hand on her hip, tossing the dart in the air and catching it again.

"You don't think at all, Penton." She smirked. "I won't miss." The pub owner barely managed to hide a grin as she began measuring her steps until she was precisely fifteen feet away from the dartboard.

"Remember, bull's-eye. Just hitting the board doesn't count. In case you forget, a bull's-eye is right here," he pointed to the center of the board and spoke slowly, taunting her.

She shut one eye, lining her shot. "Shut the hell up and get your Goddamn hand out of the way before I nail it there."

Penton smiled, placing his hand behind his back and crossing his fingers.

The woman concentrated. I've never made a shot from this far back before, she calculated, but I'll be damned if I let him get away with that scoundrel's smirk one more time.

Steadying herself, confidence seeped into her until she was she couldn't miss. She allowed herself a victorious grin - Lady Luck had always been on her side, why should tonight be any different?

"Can't wait to try some of that imported wine, Penton," she mused, "I hear it's _very_ costly."

Penton swallowed a lump in his throat, but replied with aplomb and swagger, "I already told you, that money is only for use on that drunken idiot."

"Oh, trust me, you'll find it in your heart to declare it on the house." She made sure the shot was lined up one more time, recited a tiny prayer in her mind, and threw the dart. As it flew towards the board, Penton couldn't take it any longer, and closed his eyes in excitement and dread. Edgar covered his with his hands, taking a last swig of whiskey and mumbling something to a deity.

Both men were snapped out of the darkness by a resoundingly sharp, vaguely feminine, _"SHIT!"_

Penton opened his eyes tentatively, and the first thing he saw was the look of rage on the woman's face. Then, turning to gaze at the dart board, he beheld one of the most beautiful things he was sure he'd ever enouncter. There, sticking out at a perfect angle from the board was a red dart, centimeters shy of a bull's-eye.

"YES!" Penton exclaimed repeatedly, shoving his fists into the air and dancing a little jig. The woman grumbled, grabbing Edgar's bottle of whiskey in a fury and taking an irate sip.

"Shut up, you bleeding idiot," she scolded.

Edgar stepped gingerly up to the board, and winced when he saw how close she had been to victory. He inhaled harshly, almost feeling an onset of sympathy pain. That must sting, he mused.

"Tomorrow morning, you find him in the pig pen and work your magic." Penton's boyish features were set in very large, happy grin. "Oh, and by the way, I kicked your arse."

The woman glared and took another quick swig of whiskey as Penton turned his back to her, about to share his joy with Edgar. Angrily, she lifted her boot and planted a swift punt to her smirking friend's rear.

"Ow!" he yelled, spinning around and leering at her.

She shrugged innocently, taking another sip. "Likewise."


	3. Unwell Met

"Unwell Met"

Somewhere in Tortuga, Jamaica, not far from the infamous pub _The __Faithful Bride,_ lay a man in a pig pen. The relentless Caribbean sun rose slowly in the sky, across sea and land alike, berating his eyelids. Refusing to concede, the man groaned, tucking his head beneath the muddy sleeve of his coat and turning his back to the insistent incandescence. He could feel the dull, familiar drumming of a migraine as it slowly rose to his temples, and in the pits of his stomach felt another onset of an inevitably nasty hangover.

Reaching blindly, he grabbed his bottle from the night before. Taking a long sip, he came to the slow realization that it tasted nothing like what it had the previous evening.

This isn't rum he thought, his hazy, drunken brain slowly placing the puzzle pieces together. It did not take long for his gag reflex to act up, concluding the equation as he spat out dirt and mud.

Tossing the bottle aside, the man grumbled angrily, shoving his head beneath the shadowed sanctuary of his jacket once more and falling into a restless sleep.

* * *

A woman walked away scowling from _The __Faithful Bride._ She had so been hoping the bartender's answer would have been different.

_"I don't suppose you've seen the man causing barfights all across Tortuga," she muttered nonchalantly._

_"Ma'am, you're goin' t'have t'be more specific n' that," he replied in a rich Scottish accent. She remembered telling her friend the exact same thing the night before._

_"You know, the one that sleeps with pigs and is always yelling at the sky?" she mumbled it, hoping he wouldn't hear her so she could dismiss the wager entirely. The other half of her hoped he would recognize the man she was talking of, so that she wouldn't appear as daft as she felt._

_"Oy, tha' bastard," she heard recognition in his voice and slumped, "'e came in abou' midnigh' last nigh', asking everyone fer a drink. We refused 'im and he tried to steal a customer's bottle o' whiskey, so a few men took 'im outside. I heard 'em sayin' bou' how they left the bottle n' filled it with pigwater. Tha' bloke's gonna 'ave a nasty surprise this mornin', I'll tell ya'."_

_The woman sighed, regretting that she now knew exactly where to look. She promptly asked the bartender which pigpen, ignoring the patrons' strange and questioning stares. "Thank you," she told him roughly, heading out the door and down the street._

As she approached the pen behind an old house, she repeated a subtle mantra in her mind. Please don't be there, please don't be there, please don't be there, were the words whispered over and over in her mind, emissaries from the king of wishful thinking.

Yet as she turned the corner, she could make out the slumping, crumpled form of a person. Approaching the fence keeping the pigs in, and supposedly meant to keep people out, she threw out any delusions she might have had. The roughened mass of blue and brown fabric was most decidedly that of a man. And she knew all too well which man it was.

Just walk away. He doesn't know you're here, and you can just tell Penton you never found him. Better yet, tell him you were robbed, and they took the three hundred pounds, a small, selfish voice whispered. At length, she contemplated its offering, but her own overwhelming sense of pride decided that walking away was not an option.

I keep my word, she told herself adamantly, before punctuating the thought with, damn to the depths this moral center of mine.

Hiking one leg over the fence, and then the other, the woman found herself ankle deep in mud and Heaven only knew what other manner of waste. One thing she knew was that she did not feel like staying long enough to find out. Attempting not to rouse the attention of the pigs, she skirted her way over to the man. Leaning down beside him, she wasn't quite sure how to bring his attention to her.

She contemplated rolling him over, saying something softly, yelling in his ear, or even poking and prodding until he had no choice but to acknowledge her. Oh, hang it all, she conceded. He's not going to remember in a few hours anyway.

Grabbing the muddy sleeve of his jacket, she moved his arm away from his eyes, letting the sun abash them once again. The man stirred, groaning and cursing, shutting his eyes tightly and turning from her. She sighed, yanking his arm away again.

"What d'you want?" he managed to slur, his words barely understandable.

She wasn't quite sure what to say, but decided to be straightforward, uncertain he'd comprehend even that. "I want you to get up and walk out of this pigpen with me without argument."

He opened his eyes, squinting at her, but saw only a shadowy blur. "Who the hell are you?" The woman groaned, placing his accent as much like her own - English.

She rolled her eyes. "You won't remember my name in a few hours time. Now get up." She stood, taking his arm and hauling him into a sitting position. He swayed, trying to steady himself and escape the inevitable dizziness. Not bothering to wait for his adjustment, she hauled him to his feet and slung his arm over her shoulder, ruefully knowing she'd never wash the stains from her dress.

"Where are we going?" he managed to say. She didn't bother responding, but grabbed the rum bottle from his hand and threw it out of the pen. He was too disoriented to notice.

As they reached the fence, she thanked her lucky stars that things were running rather smoothly, considering the situation. It was a most unfortunate thought, for at that moment, without warning, her ward hunched over, grasping the fence desperately, before emptying his stomach.

Charming, she thought dryly, but supposed she ought to become accustomed to it. Muttering frustrated words of encouragement, she once again put his arm over her shoulder and unlocked the gate of the pen, leading them out and shutting it behind them.

As they slowly made their way back to _The Wind's Sail,_ where the woman had a free room waiting for her and her new acquaintance, they were forced to make repeated stops. Occasionally the man would simply lose balance and fall rather painfully onto the cobblestone, other times he would bend over and repeat the sickening process of vomiting on the side of the street. The woman began to wonder how long it would be until he had nothing left in his stomach.

Finally reaching the inn, she withdrew a key from her dress pocket and opened the back door. It took the better part of an hour to finally lead him up two short flights of stairs before they reached a rather plain hallway. There was one long, tattered ornate rug along the floor, but other than that it was mostly dreary brown paint, the sun peeking through the windows illuminating the dusty air.

Reaching her chamber, she unlocked the door and hurried into the bedroom. She let the man lean against the wall and forced him to stand up straight, feeling an enormous weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Deciding she didn't have the time to bask in her relief, she quickly ran to the closet and took out a bucket, hurrying back to the room and placing it beside the bed.

"What's that for?" he inquired, eyes half shut and giving the bucket a rather perplexed look.

"You've got a nasty hangover," she began, stopping him before he fell. She started removing his jacket, which had the majority of the mud on it, before commanding him to sit down as she began to remove his boots. "You may sleep it off here, and if you feel the need to vomit, do so in the pail. Do not get out of bed, do not attempt to leave this room, and do not go looking for alcohol, as I have already taken the liberty of removing every bottle of it."

She motioned to a clock. "At six o'clock I will bring you dinner and water, until then I'd appreciate it if you'd rest." She led him over to the bed. It was bare, an old tattered sheet the only thing on it. "And a precaution: if you piss on my bed, you'll never sleep in it again." She then proceeded to tell him where the bathroom could be found, knowing his befuddled mind wouldn't process the directions in any case.

After cautioning and instructing him on a few more things, she wrote it all down on a note and tacked it to wall before drawing the curtains closed. The room darkened, and she helped the man lean back on the bed, before bidding him a pleasant sleep and leaving in a hurry. As his eyes closed and his thoughts obscured, he heard the faint click of a key in the lock and fading footsteps.

The woman's charge shifted a few times before settling into the bed. The fabric of the sheet was itchy and had an unsavory stale scent. The cotton of the mattress was stiff, clumps felt prominently pressing into his backside, pricking and prodding unpleasantly. Despite all, he drifted into lethargic slumber only seconds after closing his eyes, and it was the most comfortable sleep he'd had in months.


	4. Hypocrisy by Moonlight

A few floors above the tavern of _The __Wind's Sail,_ a scruffy man stirred awake. Eyes squinting, he struggled to adjust them to the darkness of his surroundings. He failed miserably.

Where am I?

Following a series of monotonous clicks, a door not far from the bed flew open, flooding the room with flickering light. The man could make out the slender, elongated silhouette of a woman, which gradually shrank as she entered, poking her head around the door.

"Are you awake?" he barely heard her whispered tone. He sat up in confusion, mutely answering her inquiry. "Excellent. Don't move, I'll be right back."

She returned a few moments later, lantern in her right hand, illuminating the small, quaint living quarters. Draped over her left arm were different colored fabrics.

Clothes he assumed.

His mind clearing up considerably, he looked her over as she placed the lantern on the night stand. She was wearing a rather plain brown dress, and had strawberry blonde hair that fell somewhere just past her shoulders. He wasn't sure if it was just the light, but her skin seemed slightly tan. He could not determine her eye color, but knew she was of average height and quite slim.

Placing the clothes at the foot of the bed, she stood straight. "Can you stand?"

He wasn't quite sure himself, but slowly swung his legs over the end of the mattress nonetheless. Placing his weight on his feet, he rose, rocking back and forth on his heels. The woman extended her arms, steadying him, and found that he could station himself without collapsing to the floor so long as he stayed quite still.

"Take off your shirt," she commanded, rummaging through the pile of cloth on the bed.

"I beg your pardon?" he asked, eyebrows raised. She gave him a quizzical look, obviously not expecting such cordial speech.

In any case, he supposed she found what she was looking for as she separated a white piece of cloth from the rest and stood. "Your clothes are filthy and completely unsalvageable. Kindly remove them or I will do it for you."

As the man did nothing, she shrugged, reaching for the hem of his shirt and yanking upwards. He fought her, grabbing the hem as well and pulling it down. "This is entirely unnecessary!" he protested.

"I did give you warning!" she argued, finally pulling it free of his grasp and jerking it rather violently over his head. Instinctively, the man protectively clenched the hem of his britches.

"Oh, calm yourself. You can keep those on for now." She handed him a white cotton shirt. "Now, put this on, and do hurry. I'm afraid you've already permeated the walls with that stench."

The man was about to retort when she left the room abruptly. Sighing in frustration, he pulled the shirt over his head. For a moment, he caught the soft aroma of clean, crisp linen. It was so foreign to him now, and it smelled of Heaven itself. Without his notice, the woman bustled back in, holding a pair of boots.

"Now, these," she commanded, handing them to him as well.

"These aren't mine," he muttered stupidly, confused, as he sat on the edge of the bed and began putting them on. They were decidedly cleaner and far less tattered than his pair.

"Yes, I'm aware of that." Languorously, he slipped his feet into the boots, standing up. Unlike his own shoes, the soles felt unworn and new, and for the first time in a long while, his calloused feet felt something reminiscent of comfort.

"Fantastic," the woman nodded approvingly, before lightly gripping his wrist and leading him out of the room, scooping up the rest of the clothes.

"Where are we going?" he asked, his mind a blur of unanswered questions.

"We're going to the shore so you can bathe," she told him, locking the door of the chamber before leading him down some steps. Opening a door, they stepped into an alley, which she quickly led him down. He didn't bother trying to ask any further questions as they traipsed and weaved through the bustling crowds of Tortuga, finally reaching the beach. Luckily, it was pleasantly deserted tonight.

"Who are you?" he asked as they wandered down towards the water, his boots sinking into the soft white sand.

She turned to him. "I do so hate to be hypocritical, but can we please reserve the questions for later?"

The mystery woman did not wait for a reply before reaching the sea's edge. She placed the dry clothes a few feet away from the water, before motioning to him. "Take off those boots and that shirt. It'd be a terrible shame for them to get wet."

Knowing what would happen if he didn't, the man removed the indicated articles of clothing and prayed she would not command him to remove his pants.

It was then a devilish thought fought its way into his mind of what would happen if he refused. Pushing it away, he noticed she was removing her boots as well.

"What are you doing?" he asked. She gave him a frank look, and he recalled their accord of reserving the inquiries for another time. Stepping forward and taking his hand, she led him into the water. The strong grip of her fingers around his palm was hardly romantic, igniting the picture of a stern mother guiding her child.

The stuffy night air seemed to disappear, now replaced with the calm breeze of the ocean. The man breathed it in, feeling the purity filling his lungs and felt something akin to relief. He glanced around at the soft moonlight reflected against the ocean, like the flame of a candle in a mirror. The white foam of the ocean looked like delicate lace, for the sea was calm as it peacefully lapped against the shore. The woman's charge could hardly believe he was in the infamous pirate port anymore, and let his confusion slip away to be replaced with gentle, soft-spoken reverie.

"You are still a wee bit hung over, and I'll not have you collapsing only to drown in four feet of sea water," she muttered nonchalantly, breaking him from his dreamlike trance. She did not bother to lift her skirts as the water rose higher with their trek.

Once the water was up to his waist, the woman stopped. Turning him around, she removed the pointless ribbon that kept his hair in an unkempt tail. The shaggy, dirty brown hair floated lazily around his shoulders, tussled by the sea breeze.

"Now, if you would be so kind, bathe," she told him, reaching into the pocket of her dress and withdrawing a bar of soap.

"I beg your pardon?" he asked again as she placed it in his hands.

She rolled her eyes. "I'm not going to watch, for God's sake. I will turn my back, and in ten minutes time, when I turn back around, I expect to see you looking much less bedraggled and smelling much less putrid."

She turned her back, and the man was entirely incredulous. The feeling of being soberly dumbstruck was not one with which he was well acquainted, and he did not enjoy it in the least.

"Very well," he muttered bitterly, before dunking himself in the surf to wash the dirt from his hair.

* * *

"I'm going to turn around now," the woman warned. 

"Fine," he muttered, having just finished bathing. The woman turned, her eyes widening in shock. He did not look anything like she had assumed.

Standing there, waist deep in sea water, stood a tall man. His damp, dark brown hair fell to his shoulders, his green-grey eyes regarding her with contempt. She made no notice, as her eyes continued to trail down to what appeared to be a rather toned abdomen.

Bloody Hell, she thought, still thoroughly incredulous. As the moonlight shone down on the both of them, she tried very hard to quell the thoughts her scandalous mind was brewing. It's times like these I'm glad I'm a woman.

Shaking her head and trying to rid her mind of the plague of naughty thoughts, she replaced her shock with neutral satisfaction. "Very well, let's go to shore then."

They began heading towards the sandy beach, her directly behind him, when a sudden wave hit her knees. She let out a surprised yelp before crashing into the foot deep water. Grasping anything to hold herself steady, she managed to clutch onto her ward and pull him down with her, only to wind up falling on top of him in a rather compromising position.

Opening her eyes, she came to the morbid realization that she was staring straight into his.

… God hates me

Blushing profusely, she quickly pushed herself off of him. "I'm terribly sorry, the surf, I mean, a wave, and I-"

"It's fine," the man said, irate. He stood up and headed for the shore as the woman mentally slapped herself. Regaining her composure, she rushed to the pile of clothes she had left, thanking her lucky stars that no one had stolen them. Sopping wet, she sorted out a pair of brown britches and tossed them to her charge.

"Change into these," she told him. Wordlessly, he caught the pants and turned his back to her. She did the same, turning and grabbing the last article of clothing: a simple dress she had brought for herself. After a few moments of wrestling out of her damp robe and changing into her dry one, she turned back towards the man. He turned slowly too, now fully clothed.

It's a shame he put that shirt back on a small voice in her mind told her. Stop it, stop it, stop it, she reprimanded herself. Quickly pulling on her boots, she began walking back up the beach.

"I don't suppose you'll answer my questions when we get back?" the man asked behind her, clearly perturbed.

"Now, you know I can't give you a straight answer to that until then," she replied over her shoulder.

As they began once again writhing their way through the busy streets, the man tried to figure out exactly what she meant.


	5. Of Coats and Lust

**Author's Note:** Great news, gang! Scooby and Shaggy solved the mystery of the Run-Away Fanfiction! Yes, that's right, I actually know where this story is going now. I made an outline! So, now I will definitely be working on it with more commitment, so you can expect some more linear submissions. And to think, it would have gotten away with it if it weren't for those meddling kids and their dumb chapter outlines!

* * *

"Of Coats and Lust"

Wandering into the woman's quarters at the inn, the man's caretaker lit a lantern in the and placed it on a small table. Grabbing some glasses and pouring them both some water, she opened a cabinet and withdrew some bread and plates. Placing them on the table, she took a seat and motioned for him to take the other.

"Just bread for dinner tonight. Anything else, and you might become ill," she told him as he seated himself. "I will take your questions now."

About damned time, he thought spitefully.

"Who are you?" he asked, not bothering to mask his frustration.

The woman took a drink. "My name is Juliana Bryar," she responded. "And yours?"

"James," he muttered, barely audible. He then asked, "Where are we?"

She noticed how he did not provide his last name, but she decided now was not the time to prod. Juliana motioned around her. "My room here at _The Wind's Sail."_

"This is a large room. Do you work here?"

She grinned. Very astute for a drunkard. She took another sip of water, placing her glass down and folding her hands on the table. "No, my good friend is the owner, so I get complimentary board whenever I so choose."

James nodded, ignoring his cup. "What am I doing here?"

Juliana heaved a sigh. She had been concocting this story ever since she put him to bed, and thanked her father for passing on his gift of successful deception. "I've seen you around before; starting bar fights, wandering around drunkenly, sleeping with the pigs. One night, I told myself, 'If I ever see that man in the pigpen again, I swear on my mother's grave that I will march in there and straighten him out.'" She shrugged. "And so, being a woman of my word, I did. Or rather, I am."

James seemed to mull this over for a moment. "The tale sounds charitable and kind, and you were all but while taking me down to the shore." He scowled.

She leaned over the table, regarding him with frank eyes. "Put yourself in my position, James. You've just woken up a man suffering from the devil of a hangover, a man you know is most likely stubborn and ungrateful. Do you coddle him and whisper sweet nothings until he rises of his own accord, or do you remain adamant and not waste time?"

The bearded man had to glower at the logic. "Very well. Where are my clothes?"

"Your clothes are in a basket near the door, and I will be disposing of them tomorrow. Your sword and pistol are locked away in a secure place, the whereabouts of which I will not disclose."

He frowned. "And my jacket?"

"With your other clothes, to be thrown out tomorrow," she replied.

"Don't."

Juliana looked up, curious. "What?"

"Don't destroy my jacket. Feel free to burn everything else, but I want my jacket," he told her, uncompromising.

She eyed him for a few moments. "Your jacket... there was something odd about it. Gold with blue trim, reminiscent of blue coats of high ranking Naval officers. I don't suppose you stole it?" she insinuated lightly.

Silence passed, and in a matter of moments James was enraged. He stood, shaking the table violently and towering over her. Impulsively, she shrank back into her chair. "I did no such thing! How dare you even suggest the notion that I would -" he was too furious to continue, his face contorted in anger. He turned away from her, stalking towards the window.

Her pulse slowing, Juliana stood from her chair. "I-I'm sorry, I didn't know." She was cautious as how to tread, not knowing why she struck such a discordant chord. "Do you mind if I ask where you got it, then?"

James' tone was venomous and bitter. "Yes, I do mind."

She shrugged, uncertain. "I apologize for what I said, it wasn't my place. Perhaps we can simply return to talking?"

"No, I don't think we can," he replied icily.

Juliana's eyes narrowed. "James, honestly, I am sorry for whatever I said, but I'll not be treated like a subordinate simply because I didn't know any better."

"You should have known better."

"Why?" she yelled. "Why should I have known better? Bloody Hell, James, I just met you! I don't know anything about you, how should I know what is right to say and what is not?"

"I'll not be talked down to by a woman!" James shouted, turning to face her with a poisonous glare.

His last statement ignited a fire within Juliana. "Oh, so you'll not accept the apology of a woman but you'll run around Tortuga having drunken intercourse with common whores and drinking every drop of rum you can find? One can truly bring into question your moral priorities, James!"

"Do not stand there and pretend as if you understand! You know nothing about me!" he retorted.

"Because you won't let me! For the love of God, James, I've been charitable, I'm trying to help you, and you're not giving me any Goddamn opportunity!"

"My life is not for you to fix!" James bellowed.

"Oh, but it's for you to destroy?" she countered.

They both stood there for a moment, teetering dangerously on the edge physical violence. As much as Juliana willed it not to, her mind somehow found a different route through which to channel her anger. He looks incredibly attractive when he's angry, she thought with disdain.

James glared daggers at Juliana, and for a moment thought he saw something besides blind rage flicker in her gaze. It was then that his thoughts took a rather alarming detour. She's surprisingly sexy when she's furious, his mind teased.

Juliana decided it was time to smother the inevitable sexual tension and let themselves simmer down. "I'm going to bed. You can sleep wherever you like. The door is locked, as are the windows, so don't bother. Goodnight, James."

Not protesting her departure, James watched Juliana march into her bedroom and slam the door. He heard the familiar click of the key in the lock and was grateful she was gone, for multiple reasons.

Grabbing a quilt from the sofa, he angrily laid himself down and shut his eyes tightly. Much to his dismay, his thoughts kept drifting back to the way her blue eyes sparked with rage, the way her small chest heaved in anger, the way her lips spat out venomous counters to his arguments.

God damn it, he thought bitterly, shoving his head under the blanket and trying to think very hard of his grandmother.


	6. Oh, What Tangled Webs

**Author's Note:** Okay, so, maybe not _that_ linear. But I _am_ going to finish this fanfic, by God! Not much to say, really, except enjoy!

**To Tian Sirki:** Oh, for a muse of fire, you're right! I will go back and fix that as soon as possible, thank you for telling me. **Edit: **Fixed!

* * *

"Oh, What Tangled Webs"

A haze slowly drifted through Juliana Bryar's mind as she felt her weary, heavy eyelids begin to open. Whimpering in confusion, she glanced around at the darkness of her room. As slumber's fog began to clear from her mind, she heard irate, indistinct grunting. Glancing over at her door, she saw a sliver of golden light shining from beneath, illuminating the wooden floor of her chamber.

Eyebrows knitting in confusion, Juliana slowly rose from her bed, brushing the hair from her face and walking groggily towards her door. Gently unlocking and opening it, she squinted into the harsh lamplight emanating from the other room.

"God damned…" she heard James whisper harshly as he tried to tug a brush through his knotted hair. He grunted again in exasperation, the knuckles of his hands white with the force he was exacting on the comb.

"What are you doing?" inquired Juliana, rubbing the last remnants of sleep from her eyes and gingerly approaching him. He didn't grant her an answer as he finally reached his breaking point, whispering curses and releasing the brush, though it continued to dangle unceremoniously from his locks.

Sighing, Juliana walked back into her bedchamber. Returning with a mirror, she propped it on a small wooden end table near the sofa and dragged a chair over to rest directly in front of it. "Sit," she ordered him.

Avoiding her gaze, James refused to move. Shrugging, she approached him, wrapped her slender fingers around the handle of the brush and gave it a sharp tug. "Bloody Hell!" he cursed.

"Then get up and sit in the damned chair!" Juliana responded, continuing to tug the brush towards her, guiding him to the seat. Growling and cursing something foul, James sat with a heavily resounding thud.

Instructing him to stay there, she quickly fetched some scissors from a drawer and returned. Looking at him in the mirror, her determined gaze locked with his own stubborn one. "This is going to hurt, but keep your voice down and it'll be over in a moment."

James was about to ask what she meant when, without warning, she grasped the brush tightly at the head and yanked it away, successfully separating it – and more than a few hairs – from his knotted tresses. "Jesus!" he whispered harshly.

"Sorry," she apologized, not sounding quite sincere. "You're over the hump now, just let me take care of the rest," she assured, starting to work the brush through his hair, beginning at the ends.

"Like you took care of that?" he hissed, glaring daggers at her through the mirror.

Rolling her eyes, Juliana continued in silence, occasionally using the scissors to snip away particularly unruly nests. His brown hair was maze of disorder, with clods of dirt caught between knots. She realized he'd have to wash his hair again, for mud and grime had been hiding among the snags.

After a long hush, she told him, "It won't do for you to be mad at me, you know."

James scoffed. "Would you rather I shower you with praise and gratitude?"

Juliana laughed. "That'd be a start." A short pause followed, but her tone became more serious as she said, "I do mean it, James. What say you to an accord? I'll not ask you of your past if you'll not get all in a huff over silly little things."

He glared, wincing slightly as she tugged on the roots of his hair. "It wasn't silly," he seethed, tone as cold as ice.

She sighed. "That's exactly what I mean. I may not have been silly to you, but in the end, losing your temper over something like that is just frivolous. If I don't know about it, don't be angry with me. If you don't want me to know about it, don't answer me when I ask and I vow not to push it. Does that sound agreeable?"

Snarling, James muttered a nearly incoherent, "Fine." and sat, arms crossed, while she continued to work, immersing them both in a tentative silence.

Deciding to test the waters, Juliana ventured by asking, "Do you mind telling me where you got that coat from?"

"I didn't steal it," he defended, tones clipped.

"Did I say you did? No, I'm merely asking," she replied, voice even.

Its calmness disturbed him – it was like the ocean on a cloudy morning, cool and stagnant but capable of slipping into a storm at any moment. "It's just important," he replied, gazing stubbornly out the window. Juliana nodded, becoming mute as she maneuvered the brush through his hair.

Many minutes later, after she had cut away a rather nasty clump, she stood back to admire her handiwork. "Half done," she assured, sounding proud.

A short pause ensued before James couldn't help but ask, "Why?"

"Why?" Juliana echoed, fancying him mad. "Because I finished this half."

James rolled his eyes. "Why go to all this trouble for a sloppy drunk?" he asked, though he didn't consider himself one, as his appearance in the mirror looked rather sharp. Well, the left side, at least.

Juliana shrugged. "If I don't, who will?"

"I can take care of myself," he said, though not sounding as bitter as before.

Smiling, she motioned to the rather large, unappealing pile of knotted hair and snapped bristles resting on the end table. "I can see that."

"I would have gotten it eventually," he said through gritted teeth.

Allowing herself a light chuckle, Juliana picked up the scissors. "James, you'll come to see that some things," she snipped away the last resilient knot and smoothed his hair with the brush, regarding him proudly in the mirror, "require a woman's touch."

Looking his reflection over, James decided he looked a glimmer like his old self. Besides the rascal's beard, he even appeared a touch dashing. "I daresay," Juliana interrupted his thoughts, "that you'll make quite the dandy without that beard."

He groaned, turning around to watch her as she put away the scissors. "Are you going to shave me, too?" he asked in chagrin.

Juliana smiled, enjoying his sarcasm. "It's a tempting offer, James, but I think you'll manage on your own."

She soon brought over a bowl of water, a brush, a crude blade, and some cream. "Where did you get all this?" he inquired.

"Bloke friend of mine had a few extras lying about and permitted me use of them." She looked at the tools, hands on her hips. "Or you, rather."

At the mention of a male friend, James couldn't help but feel his gut turn. Ignoring the unfamiliar sense in the depths of his stomach, he turned towards the mirror and quickly got to shaving, not bothering to mutter a thank you.

"I'm going back to bed, James," Juliana said, stretching her arms into the air and yawning. In the mirror, her charge took the time to notice how, at some point in time, the top button of her dress had slipped out of its loop. The result was a slightly more than modest view of her bosom.

"Ow!" James cursed, nicking himself out of distraction.

Rushing over to grab a cloth and return, she dipped it into the water and pressed it to his cheek where a spot of blood had formed. "I suppose you're out of practice," she mused.

James huffed, though unable to ignore the light brush of her hand on his cheek and the proximity of her slowly rising and falling chest. "I can take the rest, thank you," his words were rushed as he quickly secured the handkerchief himself, his fingers resting on hers for only a moment before she withdrew her hand.

She grinned, a smile that finally reached her eyes. "Why, James, did you just thank me?"

Concentrating hard on his reflection in the mirror and continuing to shave, James told her she was mad and that her ears must be stuffed with cotton.

Juliana shrugged. "They aren't, but they might as well be, considering the roosters will be up soon. Good night, James. Get some sleep." She offered a small, half hearted wave before disappearing behind her door.

Her ward heard the familiar click of the lock and stared intently at his face in the mirror, searching for answers. His expression was solemn, his mouth pressed in a thin line. "Something is not right with that woman…"

Remembering the mention of the man who had leant her the shaving tools, James could feel an anger rise in him again, setting his insides to churning. "Either that, or something is not right with me…"


	7. Window Shopping for the Drunk and Surly

**Author's Note:** Months later, it's finally time for chapter seven. Feel free to beat me, for I have been a bad author. Also feel free to thank AWE for getting me back into my pirates funk. Also feel free to be angry at AWE for what they did. (I won't post spoilers, but if you've seen it you know what I'm talking about.) Did you cry? 'Cause I did. Opening night was awesome, there were at least ten people dressed as pirates (myself included).

In other news, there're a few updates about this story. The first is that I've gone and rewritten/reedited the previous chapters. No big changes, just small tweaks and such. Overall, I believe my writing has evolved quite a bit since the first chapter of the story, a fact I'm both happy and displeased with. Either way, this will continue until its conclusion, you can be sure of that. Another thing is that this story is now definitely determined as **Pre-Curse, Half-Chest and No-World's.** That is to say it is set after Curse of the Black Pearl and halfway through Dead Man's Chest, excluding the end of that movie as well as the events in At World's End. Which is obvious, but it required saying anyway.

Also, I intend to write two more Norrington stories when the time comes, one Post-Curse (No-Chest and No-World's), and one Post-World's. I'd also like to write some Davey Jones snippets (concerning his relationship with You Know Who), and maybe even a tiny bit of of Elizabeth/Jack. (I still don't like Will, and the third movie didn't change that for me. Though at one point I seriously thought him and Jack were going to kiss, which made me excited.) I must also get on that Gillette story I began writing. To whom it may concern, I do plan on finishing "Acquaintances at the Faithful Bride", but first I have to work out an actual plot (what it's currently lacking). I have, however, reedited all current chapters of that story as well.

Other than that, I'd just like say that I'm glad to be back, and I hope you're glad to have me back. Please enjoy the belated continuation of Promise!

* * *

"Window Shopping for the Drunk and Surly"

Eyes cracking open, Juliana winced in disdain as the harsh crowing of roosters clawed at her ears. Cursing any deity who would listen, she slowly rose from her bed and held her head in her hands, feeling a headache begin to seep past her eyes and into her temples.

"Fan-bleeding-tastic," she groaned, tossing her sheets aside. Opening her window, she winced as the bright morning light flooded the room. She stumbled back, temporarily blinded, and swore loudly.

Shaking her head, she allowed her eyes time to adjust to the light before exiting the room. Noticing a crumpled heap on the sofa, she assumed the form beneath it to be James. Deciding it was his fault for her staying up so late into the morning, she chose to give him a similar awakening as punishment. Pulling the blanket back over his head, she couldn't help but pause.

My, but he's handsome, she thought as she beheld the man before her. He looked so much more peaceful and complacent asleep, and much lovelier beardless. She had half a mind to wake him an entirely different way, but before she did something she would perhaps regret, his short eyelashes began to flutter open.

"Bloody woman," he growled, yanking the blanket back over his head. Juliana suddenly remembered not to judge a book by its cover.

Huffing, she marched over to the windows and threw them open, allowing sunlight to blanket the room in harsh white rays. Returning to the enveloped man, she quickly pulled the quilt completely off of him. "Bright and early, James! We've places to go!"

Her charge clutched his eyes, grasping wildly for the blanket. Seeing that she had it in her hand, he squinted menacingly. "Damn it, woman!"

Juliana found she was growing weary of that moniker. "My name is Juliana. You'd do well to call me by it."

"And you'd do well to leave me be!" he responded.

Juliana shook her head. "No such luck, James. You can't live in those clothes forever. Now get up, for we've lots to accomplish before nightfall."

Grumbling and hissing curses against Juliana and her mother and her mother's mother, James slowly rose as the resident "bloody woman" went about preparing breakfast.

* * *

"Where the hell are we going?" asked James, irate and still unaccustomed to the sun's glare. 

"Oh, for the love of God, I've had just as much sleep as you, but you don't see me parading about as if I've a giant stick up my arse," she scolded. "Now look smart, as I've no interest in being chucked from any shops today."

"Fine, but you haven't answered my question," James hissed. He was beginning to discoeer that skirting inquiries was one of her many irritating talents.

"We're going to get you some proper clothes," she replied. "And do try to adopt a more stately tone while we're in market."

James leered, and yet couldn't believe he was currently in Tortuga. Around him he heard no gunshots being fired and saw no men scampering about, flinging ale in every direction. Rather, they were in a relatively composed marketplace, where the most commotion being caused were people haggling over prices. Everyone looked respectable; there were no surly whores or raucous blaggarts to be found. James wondered if it were only like this on this morning, or if it were like this every day and he had simply been too drunk to remember. Reluctantly, he was forced to assume the latter.

A bell rang harmoniously as they entered an average looking shop. Within it were rows upon rows of tunics, shirts, breeches, vests, belts, and simple dresses. The owner, a short, podgy man with a merry air about him, approached Juliana, eyes dancing cheerily. "Why, by my stars, if it ain't Miss Bryar herself!"

Juliana smiled, giving the man a friendly hug that made James bristle. "Good morning, Mister Reed! How is business?"

"Business? Piff puff, Juliana! Don't tell me you've come here just to talk about business!" The man named Reed laughed.

Juliana smiled. "I'm afraid we have, to some extent. This is my f-"

"And who's this young man, hm?" Reed interrupted. Juliana rolled her eyes and smiled, as if accustomed to his interceptions. "Don't tell me you've gone and gotten yourself promised! Men all over Tortuga will be weeping tonight!"

James glared at the wall, trying his very best to keep from pummeling the old man. Men all over Tortuga?

Juliana, painfully oblivious, chuckled. "Oh, you've such an imagination Reed. The only man who'd weep is my father, or rather he'd be rolling in his grave."

"So you're not spoken for then, lassie?" inquired Reed, though his tone was more fatherly than gentlemanly. Not that James had noticed; in his ears, everything the man said was laced with innuendo.

"The day a man claims me is the day the fish start flying and the gulls start swimming," Juliana responded jokingly.

"Ah, you say that now, but you can't live on your own forever."

"I beg to differ," she grinned, but changed topics. "In any case, we've come for your wares." She motioned to James. "Pardon my rudeness. James, this is Patrick Reed. Reed, this is James."

"A pleasure to meet you!" James' fingers were ceased by Reed's own small, pudgy ones in an enthusiastic handshake. "Any friend of Juliana's is a friend of mine!" James forced himself to smile, but wasn't sure if his attempts were successful.

"We'll just be looking around, Reed," Juliana said, wandering over to a table lined with shirts.

"Very well, I'll be in the back should you need anything, m'lady," Reed gave a regal bow and disappeared behind the counter.

James, stick straight with suppressed rage, ambled over to Juliana. "A little cozy with him, aren't you?"

The woman shrugged. "He was my father's close friend. After he died, Reed helped keep out of the brothels. He's like a second father."

James thought about that for a moment. "Is that all?" he asked nonchalantly.

Looking up from the various shirts, she regarded him quizzically. "Yes."

He nodded. "Good."

Juliana rolled her eyes. "Men," she muttered.

"Pardon?"

"Nothing. Hurry and pick some things out. Unless, of course, you'd like to take your time while I go in the back and talk with Reed," she suggested. James didn't reply, but was quick to go about looking at the merchandise. Juliana grinned knowingly, before she wandered off to browse the dresses.

Not many minutes later, the bell tolled again and laughter was heard as three women entered the shop. Reed quickly surfaced from behind the counter, giving the ladies a warm smile and saying he'd be there to welcome them in a moment. Curious, James glanced over and was easily captivated.

All three women were wearing rather expensive gowns: one teal, one gold, and one green. Their hair was set in curls, either done up extravagantly or left down to flow past their shoulders. Their cheeks and lips were painted with rouge, and pearls adorned each of their necks. One by one, they returned his gaze before turning to each other, giggling behind their fans and whispering, occasionally glancing back at him.

While they were gossiping, Reed had drifted over and was now offering a bow to each of them. "Miss Simpson, Miss Ire, Miss Jacobs, what a pleasure it is to have you visit. Might I ask why you've decided to grace my humble shop with your presence?"

The blonde one in the teal dress, who appeared to be the leader, curtsied and gave the man a gracious smile. "Hello, Mister Reed. My dear brother, in the next shop over, asked that we come and inquire if his order is in."

A light seemed to go on in Reed's head as the realization struck him. "Oh, of course! One moment, m'lady," he said, rushing back behind the counter and returning with a package wrapped in paper. "Here it is, Miss Simpson, just received it yesterday."

"Thank you, Mister Reed," said Miss Simpson. Meanwhile, Juliana leaned over ever so slightly, following their conversation. "Might I ask something of you, if it isn't too much trouble?" she whispered.

"Of course, Miss!" replied Reed, sounding rather humbled.

The blonde smiled in appreciation. "Might you introduce us to that man over there?" she asked, motioning with her fan. It was directed at James, who appeared to be obliviously perusing some breeches. Juliana suddenly felt a cold chill run up her spine.

Reed gave the lady a curious stare, but quickly acquiesced. Beckoning James over, he announced them to each other. Juliana watched out of the corner of her eye as he bowed most respectably.

I didn't teach him that, she thought, confused.

The ladies all giggled and curtsied, fanning themselves more rapidly. "A pleasure to meet you, James. My name is Heather Simpson, and these are my good friends, Miss Patricia Ire," she motioned to the brunette in the gold dress, "and Miss Winnifred Jacobs." She motioned to the dirty blonde in the green dress.

Leering at nothing in particular, Juliana tuned their conversation out of her mind, returning to browsing the dresses. After a few minutes of mindlessly flipping through fabric, she overheard them speak of leaving.

"Alas, I'm afraid we must go," said Patricia wistfully.

"Yes, your brother will be waiting, Heather," added Winnifred.

The blonde seemed saddened, and sighed dramatically. "Unfortunately, Winnie is right."

"I do hope we meet again," said James, before leaning down and kissing her hand.

I most certainly didn't teach him that, remarked Juliana with contempt.

"But how?" wondered Heather aloud, seeming to think for a moment before smiling. "I know! My father, the _governor,"_ she stressed the word, "is holding a small party in a few days time. Oh, won't you come?"

"You may bring a friend if you like!" added Patricia. Heather glared at her for a moment, but swiftly masked it with another smile directed at James.

"Yes, I suppose you may. Please, say you'll attend," Heather pleaded, looking especially hopeful.

Her father's the governor of Tortuga? Fine, upstanding gent he must be, Juliana thought spitefully. No wonder she's so calculating: any daughter of a man who runs a pirate port can't be very innocent at all.

"But of course," replied James, kissing her hand again. Juliana suddenly felt the insatiable urge to break something – or someone.

"Splendid!" exclaimed Heather. With elegance, she withdrew two pieces of stiff paper from her purse and handed them to James. "All that you need to know is written there. I must be going, but I will see you at the party!"

"Absolutely," he responded, answered their curtsies with a bow. The three women waved goodbyes, tittering away as they exited the shop in a scuffle.

"What fortune!" rejoiced Reed, who had been silent during the exchange, all but forgotten. "I dare say you've captured the heart of the governor's daughter!" The shop owner shook James' hand again, laughing heartily.

Juliana cleared her throat. "We'll be paying now, Reed," she stated flatly.

"Of course, of course!" Reed quickly took the pile of clothes James had set aside and wrapped it, reciting the sum. Juliana paid, grabbed the package, and handed it forcefully to James. He had to keep himself from stumbling as she did.

She sauntered towards the door, her gait swift and unquestioning. "Step to, James. We've plenty left to buy today and thanks to your idle banter, not much time to do it." The bell tolled as she waved a quick goodbye to Reed and left the shop, stepping impatiently into the busy street.

"Women," James grumbled, yet grinned all the same.


End file.
